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Authors: Sandra Jane Goddard
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spider with a body as intricately patterned as its web sped across the newly bare soil; and as she tugged at a tangled mat of creeping buttercup, a cock robin came to alight on a nearby clod of earth and watch patiently for a worm or two to be exposed by the tines of her ancient fork. Yes, for a moment, it was such a relief to be able to set aside the whole troubling business of getting married and with it, her preoccupation with fathoming the behaviour expected from her.
After a while, she stood up, and straightening her back, glanced up the slope to George’s staccato hammering and the growing frame for the hen house. He seemed nice enough, it was just that, well, he was a full-grown man and he knew about… things … whereas, she, she was totally unprepared for just about every aspect of living with him. Thanks to her mother drumming it into her, she had always understood the importance of finding a good husband, but now that by all accounts she had done so, she was faced with a new and seemingly higher hurdle; that of how to be his wife. Of course she knew how to cook and clean; like so many other things, her mother had seen to that but she knew so little about him that the possibilities for getting it all wrong were endless. She rested on the fork, her face feeling pink from her exertions and her hair tumbling into her eyes. Well, she was pretty much on her own now, so all she could do was try her best and hope that it would be enough for him.
For a while, she worked on, the area of cleared soil increasing and the pile of weeds mounting until, deciding that there was sufficient, she made a bonfire. Not surprisingly, it was slow to catch and so she stood watching it, drawing breaths and inhaling the sweet smell of crushed vegetation and the rising scent of the damp earth. Spring may smell fresher but there was something about the scent of autumn; brown to spring’s green; tangy to her sweetness; decay where there had been renewal. Yes, if there could be such a thing, then autumn was a brown smell; dark and pungent and clinging now to the inside of her nostrils such that she was certain she could taste it in the back of her throat.
With a thin plume of smoke now starting to spiral satisfyingly upwards, she turned her gaze to the meadow beyond.
‘You’ve done well there.’
She turned sharply. Somehow, she had missed the sound of his approach. That was the trouble with daydreaming.
‘Oh. Yes. Not too badly.’ She watched him casting an eye over the cleared plot. Pa. The smell of him – of sweat and of sawdust – made her think of her father and triggered a sudden ache to be back at home, standing side by side with her mother, helping to prepare dinner.
‘Not too badly at all, I’d say.’
While his praise was welcome, it wasn’t going to fill the hollow that had settled somewhere in her stomach. Ridding herself of that, she was beginning to understand, rested solely with her.
‘Hard work with this old fork, though.’ It was an observation she really only offered as conversation.
‘Aye, I can see that. Tell you what then, why don’t we stop awhile and go and see if Pa will lend us something sturdier?’
Lord; now what had she done? Her skirt was caked with dust and her hair must be almost as bad. But to make a fuss would surely be worse.
‘Course. Fine. Although maybe I ought to just splash my face.’
‘You and me both,’ was his reply as they turned to head back up the slope to the pump.
*
She had been looking forward to seeing the inside of the farmhouse. Of course, he had told her about it – quite a lot about it, in fact – during several of the half-dozen Sunday afternoons when he had walked over to Nettley Wood to see her; to court her, as it had subsequently turned out. And now, here she was, walking down the hill as part of the family that owned in it. It was still hard to believe that their wedding – the event at the heart of all the talk and anticipation of the last few weeks
After a while, she stood up, and straightening her back, glanced up the slope to George’s staccato hammering and the growing frame for the hen house. He seemed nice enough, it was just that, well, he was a full-grown man and he knew about… things … whereas, she, she was totally unprepared for just about every aspect of living with him. Thanks to her mother drumming it into her, she had always understood the importance of finding a good husband, but now that by all accounts she had done so, she was faced with a new and seemingly higher hurdle; that of how to be his wife. Of course she knew how to cook and clean; like so many other things, her mother had seen to that but she knew so little about him that the possibilities for getting it all wrong were endless. She rested on the fork, her face feeling pink from her exertions and her hair tumbling into her eyes. Well, she was pretty much on her own now, so all she could do was try her best and hope that it would be enough for him.
For a while, she worked on, the area of cleared soil increasing and the pile of weeds mounting until, deciding that there was sufficient, she made a bonfire. Not surprisingly, it was slow to catch and so she stood watching it, drawing breaths and inhaling the sweet smell of crushed vegetation and the rising scent of the damp earth. Spring may smell fresher but there was something about the scent of autumn; brown to spring’s green; tangy to her sweetness; decay where there had been renewal. Yes, if there could be such a thing, then autumn was a brown smell; dark and pungent and clinging now to the inside of her nostrils such that she was certain she could taste it in the back of her throat.
With a thin plume of smoke now starting to spiral satisfyingly upwards, she turned her gaze to the meadow beyond.
‘You’ve done well there.’
She turned sharply. Somehow, she had missed the sound of his approach. That was the trouble with daydreaming.
‘Oh. Yes. Not too badly.’ She watched him casting an eye over the cleared plot. Pa. The smell of him – of sweat and of sawdust – made her think of her father and triggered a sudden ache to be back at home, standing side by side with her mother, helping to prepare dinner.
‘Not too badly at all, I’d say.’
While his praise was welcome, it wasn’t going to fill the hollow that had settled somewhere in her stomach. Ridding herself of that, she was beginning to understand, rested solely with her.
‘Hard work with this old fork, though.’ It was an observation she really only offered as conversation.
‘Aye, I can see that. Tell you what then, why don’t we stop awhile and go and see if Pa will lend us something sturdier?’
Lord; now what had she done? Her skirt was caked with dust and her hair must be almost as bad. But to make a fuss would surely be worse.
‘Course. Fine. Although maybe I ought to just splash my face.’
‘You and me both,’ was his reply as they turned to head back up the slope to the pump.
*
She had been looking forward to seeing the inside of the farmhouse. Of course, he had told her about it – quite a lot about it, in fact – during several of the half-dozen Sunday afternoons when he had walked over to Nettley Wood to see her; to court her, as it had subsequently turned out. And now, here she was, walking down the hill as part of the family that owned in it. It was still hard to believe that their wedding – the event at the heart of all the talk and anticipation of the last few weeks
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